


For Bad Days

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor gets the help he deserves, Everyone is friends, I just WANT MY BOY TO BE HAPPY OK, I'm not really a writer but this idea wouldn't leave me alone, M/M, Self Care, Soft Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Therapy, Tree Bros, but like it's connor soooo, connor swears a lot, galaxy girls if you squint and i mean realllyyyyy squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: Stuffed in the back of the bottom shelf of Connor Murphy’s bedside table is a mustard yellow, faux-leather pencil case.It’s been a very long time since he’s had to use it.(Or: Connor keeps a little emergency bag of self-care items for when he's Not Good. Here's what's in it and why.)





	For Bad Days

**Author's Note:**

> SO.
> 
> I haven't written fanfiction since I was like 13, and honestly didn't think I would again. But this concept just GOT IN MY HEAD and wouldn't leave me alone. 
> 
> Apologies if any of my vocab and/or spelling choices are a bit Aussie - I tried to Americanize it as best I could! I also stan SoftConnor, so sorry if he's a bit toooo soft. Couldn't help myself. Enjoy!
> 
> Side note: I hope I've made this very clear in the story, but no I do NOT think that "love conquers all" when it comes to mental illness. In fact, as someone with anxiety who is also in a relationship, I KNOW it doesn't. But having Your Person in your life can ease the brainchaos a wee bit, I think. :-)
> 
> (OH AND ALSO TW: some references to self-harm, scars, etc.) 
> 
> https://theyellowestmustard.tumblr.com/

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Stuffed in the back of the bottom shelf of Connor Murphy’s bedside table is a mustard yellow, faux-leather pencil case.

It’s been a very long time since he’s had to use it.

He’s not been counting the days or anything. He and Cass had both agreed that for Connor, it probably wasn’t the best strategy. Cass (who insisted that Connor call her “Cass”, rather than “Dr Amery”) had told him that by tallying days, by keeping count of how long he goes before he has a total fucking meltdown…well, it’s all based on the belief that his mental health is just a waiting game, like he’s a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

“But you’re not a bomb, Connor. You’re a human being. By counting each day that you see is a good day, you’re only giving yourself a reason to put all the blame on your own shoulders when you’re faced with a mental health crisis. Like…Like ‘Oh no, I only went twelve days, last time I had thirty good days in a row, I must be getting worse. I’m useless, I’m not getting better, everything sucks.’ Sound familiar?”

Connor had admitted that it did.

“Just take each day as it comes, Connor. Remember that progress isn’t a straight line. Remember the strategies we’ve talked about. And your support network. And your emergency pack. Though I’d hope if you felt the need to use your emergency pack, you’d also be booking an emergency appointment with me, yeah?”

She’d grinned at him then, and he’d told her yeah, absolutely, and he’d ended the session by showing her screenshots of memes on his busted up iPhone, making her squawk with laughter, wiping her eyes and insisting that teenagers never used to be this damn funny, oh my god.

His sessions with Cass make everything easier. Quieter. So does his “support network”, as Cass calls them.

And when his brain does suddenly decide that everything is just too much, and he wakes feeling numb and heavy and unable to even get out of bed, it’s comforting to know that his emergency pack - the mustard yellow, faux leather pencil case - is there, stuffed in the back of the bottom shelf of his bedside table.

It’s not Connor’s usual aesthetic, admittedly. He’d spotted it at the top of a pile of old clothes Zoe had been planning on donating to their local thrift store, and something about it had called to him, so he’d swiped it. He’d made it his own; the back now littered with enamel pins and buttons, and covered in messy sketches in black Sharpie.

The front, in Connor’s untidy scrawl, reads “For Bad Days.”

And it’s been ages since Connor’s had a bad day, a really bad one. Ages and ages. The pencil case is beginning to gather dust. But it’s just nice, knowing it’s there. Knowing each individual item in it. Like a security blanket.

Inside the pencil case, right at the very top, is Dr Cassiana Amery’s business card. Her phone number is circled, and underlined, several times. Connor has Cass’s business number in his phone’s contacts, of course, but when things get bad, he sometimes needs a physical reminder to call. A reminder to reach out, seek help. That there’s no shame in doing that.

The next thing Connor knows he’d find in the pencil case is a Ziploc bag containing a pack of face wipes (also swiped from Zoe) and some breath strips. It still embarrasses Connor a whole lot, but if he’s in the middle of a depressive episode, he usually can’t find the will to even get out of bed to wash his face and brush his teeth. He lets everything go, feels more and more disgusted with himself with every passing hour, yet somehow the longer he goes without paying attention to his personal hygiene, the less he sees the point in it.

The wipes and breath strips, weirdly enough, had been Alana’s idea.

It had been the first time he’d opened up to her, really opened up, way back before he’d found a therapist he actually liked. Alana had been hanging out with Zoe on a Friday night, their usual routine, and Connor had been smoking in his room, half leaning out the window so his parents didn’t notice the smell. On her way back from the bathroom, she’d stumbled into Connor’s room by mistake and, instead of excusing herself and leaving, had simply sat down on Connor’s bed and stared at him.

Connor had sort of sneered at her, and asked if she was lost.

“No,” Alana had replied, sounding serious but somehow completely free of judgement. “No, but…I think maybe you are, aren’t you?”

Maybe it had just been because Connor was stoned, but Alana Beck was surprisingly easy to talk to.

It was only when Zoe made an appearance, knocking tentatively at Connor’s doorframe with a concerned expression, that he realised he’d sort of abducted Alana and had been monologuing at her for over forty-five minutes. He’d felt bad, then, tried to apologise. But Zoe had perched, wordless, on the edge of his bed next to Alana, and nodded for him to continue. So he’d kept talking.

“It’s just all the little things, too, and I fucking hate it. Like. When it gets really bad it’s like I’m paralysed. Like I can’t even fucking move, or speak, or anything, and the longer I stay like that the harder it gets to…to come back to myself, if that makes sense? It’s so fucked, Alana. I wouldn’t wish this shit on my worst fucking enemy. I think about getting up and showering, and washing my face, and brushing my teeth, and getting dressed, and just all the steps involved in doing all that, and it just sounds like climbing a fucking mountain, and then I just feel worse and worse, and it’s like—”

“But why make it all or nothing?”

Connor had stopped mid-flow to stare at Alana, dumbly.

“Huh?”

“Make it easier for yourself. Clean your face with a baby wipe. Chew a stick of gum. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s something. You’d feel so much better, and it takes far less effort and time.”

Turns out Alana Beck is a fucking genius.

Connor took her advice, also going one step further and adding a travel-sized can of dry shampoo and some hair bands to his yellow pencil case, so he could stop his unruly locks from becoming tangled and greasy if he found himself stuck in bed for days.

And it helped.

Alana had helped, too. For the next few weeks, every time Alana would visit Zoe, she’d pop her head into Connor’s doorway to say hi.

_“Just wanted to see how you’re doing today, Connor!”_

_“Hey, Connor, have you done any study for Chem yet? We could compare notes if you’d like?”_

_“So, I do hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I bought you a new can of dry shampoo. I found one that’s made with hemp! I just thought it was so funny, and I thought of you right away!”_

_“Connor, Zoe and I were thinking of going out to eat tonight for a change – would you like to join us?”_

As the weeks passed, Connor had begun to think of Alana Beck as ‘Pretty Alright’. Then ‘Pretty Cool’. Then ‘Fucking Awesome’.

He’d finally settled on ‘Best Friend And Also Solely Responsible For Helping To Mend My Relationship With My Sister.’

Turned out Zoe was actually not too bad either, once he started making an effort to, well. Not be awful to her. She was also the cause of the next item in the For Bad Days pencil case – a packet of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups.

It had been the night of her most recent Jazz Band performance. She’d been brilliant. More than brilliant. Incandescent.

Connor knew because he’d been there. He’d seen it.

He hadn’t known. Why didn’t anyone ever tell him his sister was so talented?

She’d nosed her way into his bedroom, around 10pm. He’d been lying upside-down on his bed, and removed an earbud at the sight of her.

“Thought you’d have gone to Denny’s to celebrate with the rest of the band.”

“Nah. Last time I went, Jackson flirted with me the entire time and his buddies kept egging him on when I turned him down. It was awful. Never again.”

Connor wrinkled his nose in disgust. The room once again fell silent.

“Um.”

Zoe was still in the doorway, like she was waiting for an invitation inside. Like a vampire.

“Um, so. You came tonight? I saw you there tonight. With mom.”

“…Yeah. Yeah, I was there.”

“What did you think?”

Zoe bit her lip. Winced like she didn’t really want to know the answer.

Connor paused, just to really build up the suspense. He pretended to be very interested in his nail polish for a long moment, then looked up at his little sister.

“Fuckin’ terrible. You really suck.”

Zoe briefly looked like she’d been slapped. Then she met Connor’s gaze, saw his mischievous grin, and burst out laughing.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d rather listen to nails on a chalkboard.”

“Yeah? Or like… a hoard of screaming babies?”

“Or Jared Kleinman’s sex noises.”

Zoe had shrieked with laughter, and Connor had demonstrated through his own giggles _exactly_ what he thought Jared Kleinman’s sex noises would sound like, nasal and high-pitched and way too loud for the tiny room they’re in, punctuated with little “Mmmmm, Zoe!”’s and Zoe’s screaming “ _Stop, oh my god you’re so gross!”_ through her own hysterics.

Once their wild peels of laughter died away, Zoe dug into the oversized pocket on her dungarees, and handed Connor an orange packet.

“What’s this for?”

Zoe shrugged. Smiled.

“Reeces used to be your favorite. I just wanted to say thanks. For coming tonight.”

The chocolate goes straight into his yellow pencil case.

Every time his secret Reece’s stash gets eaten, Zoe is quick to replace it.

In the front section of the yellow pencil case, there’s a handful of washable markers in rainbow colors, the kind teachers have a surplus of in elementary classrooms.

Those had been Evan’s idea.

It had been about two months after the whole incident in the computer lab, Connor would guess. He still kicks himself for that day, even now. What kind of psychopath shoves and screams at a kid with a broken arm? Especially a jumpy, anxious kid like Evan? What the fuck was wrong with him?

He’s so grateful that Evan had found a rare burst of confidence and had chased after him, choking on his own words like vomit, pale and shaky and _“No, that’s not, I don’t like her like that, she just, she was nice to me, this one time, and I don’t, I don’t, I don’t—”_

Their friendship had developed quickly. Surprisingly quickly. They’d started having lunches together, first in complete silence, and then with awkward small talk, Evan stammering away the whole time and wiping his palms on his jeans every five minutes. After a few days, they’d leveled up to self-deprecating jokes, then to jokes at each other’s’ expense _(“My mom was saying the other day – no stop laughing I’m serious – she was saying how apparently the reason for mental illness is too much gluten, so what I’m saying is hand over your goddamn pizza pocket, you anxious fuck. I’m trying to help you.”_ ) to real, actual conversations. Proper ones, about stuff that matters. Evan’s terrible therapist and Connor’s love of art and Evan’s job over the summer.

Connor really liked listening to Evan talk.

After a few weeks they were joined by Jared, who “just wanted to make sure Evan’s not being held hostage here, y’know?”

Connor had been surprised when Evan had responded tartly, words spilling out like he’d had them stored up precisely for this moment.

“Connor’s my friend, actually. Maybe you should go hang out somewhere else, Jared. We’re _family friends._ That’s a whole different thing, and you know it.”

Connor had almost choked on his soda.

They’d talked it out, Evan and Jared, and Connor had found himself forced into the role of mediator, which he wasn’t very good at and did not feel at all equipped for. He’d mostly found himself backing Evan, perhaps a bit too aggressively (“OK, but can you not see how saying that to a person with anxiety makes you a _total fucking dipshit_?”).

But they’d worked it out. Eventually.

It turned out Jared was actually not a bad guy underneath his rather slimy persona.

And Evan Hansen was a lot more than his anxiety. A hell of a lot more.

Connor had been having a bad evening. He’d fought with his parents (not unusual) and had accidentally-on-purpose bumped into Zoe as he’d stomped up the stairs, sending her flying with a little yelp of alarm, and _he’d just started fixing things with Zoe, too, what the fuck, she didn’t deserve that, why did you DO that,_ and by the time he’s reached his room he can hear his mom crying again.

He felt like he was burning, could feel flames lapping at his mind, dread and panic rising in his chest and a crushing weight in his stomach and _shit shit shit_.

He tried to control his breathing, failed.

His skin itched. That was not a good sign.

He texted Evan.

Just one word – and he knew, _he knew_ it would only make Evan panic, why the fuck did he do that to him, why was he so _careless_ and _selfish_ and _cruel?_

Just the word ‘help’.

Evan had been at his house within ten minutes, panting and sweating like he’d run the whole way.

They’d holed themselves up in Connor’s room after sneaking past Larry and Cynthia, and Connor had been aware of Evan talking to him in low, gentle tones, like trying to calm a frightened animal. But he couldn’t make out any of the words because he was _hot,_ his skin was itching and burning and he could hear his own breathing, a hiss through clenched teeth, and his nails dug into the already scarred skin of his arms, hard enough to draw blood, and it stung but he couldn’t stop he couldn’t stop he couldn’t stop and Evan’s voice suddenly cut into the chaos of his mind, saying _no-nonononono Connor don’t do that, please don’t, just wait a second, I’m gonna help you, okay? Just—here--_

He jolted as he felt Evan pulling his hand away from his own arm and pressed something into his fingers, gently manipulating his hand to close around it. He glanced down to see a dark blue marker, already uncapped, and looked to Evan in confusion.

But Evan didn’t meet his gaze.

Evan’s eyes were trained on Connor’s left forearm, which he held steady with Connor’s pale, scarred wrist facing up. In his other hand, he held his own marker.

“What are you--?”

Connor froze as the tip of Evan’s marker made contact with his skin, pressing lightly against the soft swell of flesh just below his thumb. With a look of concentration, he drew a series of loops meeting in the middle to make a childlike, cartoon flower. He gave a lopsided little smile as he added a stem and a single leaf, mumbling “Sorry. It’s not very good.”

Connor swallowed roughly.

“It’s…fine.”

Evan let out a soft huff of laughter.

“Well, we can’t all be artists, so…”

“We can’t all be tree experts.” Connor countered.

Evan laughed softly again. Connor didn’t think it was cute. Not at all. And his mouth definitely didn’t go dry. Nope.

“What…is this? What are you doing?”

Evan’s eyes darted up, and he suddenly looked as though he was second guessing himself.

“Um. Distracting you? I mean, I think I am, that was the aim anyway, but I’m not sure if it’s…if it’s working, I guess? I mean, I just thought. I thought maybe if you did something else to your um. Skin. Rather than like, hurting yourself, that might. Um. And I know you like to draw, so.”

He nodded in the direction of the marker, still held aloft in Connor’s other hand.

Connor decided to give it a try.

He began by drawing a series of looping swirls around the faded, white scars in the crook of his elbow. He traced directly over the top of the scars in the center of his wrist. He swapped colors and sketched outstretched hands in the gaps between the lines. Sketched full, lush trees and disembodied hazel eyes that gazed out from his skin in quiet understanding.

By the time he’d run out of blank canvas to draw on, his left forearm packed full of bright color, his skin had stropped itching, and the frenetic energy thrumming through him had eased, almost to nothing.

He could breathe again.

It’s not until Evan left, hours later and only after Connor had assured him a dozen times that yes, he feels a lot better and no, he’s not gonna do anything stupid, that Connor noticed that the hands he’d drawn on himself are distinctly boy-shaped, and the eyes are kind of the same color as Evan’s.

He’d told himself, at the time, that it was a coincidence. And he’d immediately packed the colored markers into his yellow pencil case. For emergencies.

There’s more Evan-related things in the mustard yellow pencil case, now.

There’s a neon green post-it note that just reads “Don’t forget to take your meds!!!” that Evan had left on Connor’s dresser after he’d slept over the first time.

There’s ticket stubs from movies they’d seen together, and a few arcade tickets. Crumpled notes they’d passed back and forth in class that Connor couldn’t bring himself to throw away. An origami crane Evan had folded himself, along with Connor’s rather lopsided attempt from when he’d asked Evan to teach him how.

There’s also a collection of Polaroid photos, most of them taken by Zoe, of the two of them together, Evan and Connor, just playing video games or watching movies or reading in comfortable silence.

When they’re put in chronological order, the distance between the two of them begins to shrink.

In the most recent photo, Connor’s legs are sprawled across Evan’s, and their fingers are intertwined.

Evan’s buried his face in the crook of Connor’s neck in embarrassment, and Connor is rolling his eyes at the camera.

Jared’s squatting on Evan’s other side, both hands gesturing to Evan’s neck in a ‘Ta-Da!’ sort of pose, like a model showing off a sports car in a shopping mall.

Inches away from Jared’s outstretched hand, there’s a dark bruise on Evan’s neck.

Connor’s not sorry.

The last item in Connor’s mustard yellow, faux leather pencil case, is a birthday card.

It’s from the dollar store, with a corgi on the front photo-shopped to be dressed up like a punk, complete with a red Mohawk and a tiny leather jacket. It’s embarrassingly stupid.

Connor’s read it so many times he can almost recite the contents by heart.

_Connor,_

_Happy birthday! I know you didn’t think you’d make it to 18 so, congrats – you made it!_

_I know this is kind of long for a birthday card (sorry) but there’s a lot I have to say, so you can suck it up and deal with it. If you don’t read every last word I’ll kill myself (KIDDING!!)_

_I just wanted to tell you I’m so so proud of how far you’ve come in the last year I’ve known you. I know you’ve been going to therapy and everything. But working on your mental health takes time and effort and self-reflection and so much more than just seeing a doctor once a week. You’ve worked your ass off, Con. You’re amazing._

_So yeah, I wanted to tell you you’re incredible. But also (and you’re going to think this dumb), thank you. For just everything. For the trips to the orchard, and the walks to Ellison, and the movie nights at Jared’s, and that time we made edibles and had to air out the kitchen before my mom got home because cannibutter smells like shit. Thank you for holding my hand through every panic attack, every single one. Thank you for being there for me when I came out to my mom. Thank you for not abandoning me, and being patient with me. For listening to me, and accepting me and all my shit and helping me grow. Because you really have helped me grow._

_Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving me like I love you._

_You’re the actual best thing in my life, and I just really hope one day you’ll look in the mirror and see the impossibly wonderful, beautiful person that I see. If you ever aren’t sure, he looks like this – photo attached!_ _:-)  
_

_Happy 18 th Connor. I can’t wait to wish you a happy 19th, a happy 21st, a happy all of them, for as long as I’m allowed to keep you. _

_< 3 Evan xo _

Inside the birthday card, there’s another Polaroid picture. This one’s of Connor, just of Connor. It seems a bit weird to hang on to a photo of his own face, but Evan had insisted he keep it, and so inside the birthday card it stayed.

It’s at Ellison state park, the warm light of the setting sun filtering through the trees. Connor’s not looking at the camera, doesn’t even look aware that the photo’s being taken. He’s in profile, staring off at something out of frame.

Connor’s never been a big fan of how he looks. Too lanky, too thin, his face too pointy, too angular. Before he’d fixed things with Zoe, she often told him he looked like an alien, and even now he tends to agree with her.

But in this photo he looks almost…pretty.

The light casts a golden glow onto his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw. His hair is pulled up in an untidy bun, one of his arms reaching up to adjust it, tugging on the hair band. He’s squinting, his nose scrunched up a bit, as though he’s about to start laughing.

He looks happy.

And he is happy, now.

That doesn’t mean he’s not, well, mentally ill. It doesn’t mean he’ll be happy every day, for forever.

There will still be Bad Days.

But Connor has Evan. He has Evan and Alana and Zoe and even Jared. He has his support network and his therapist and his strategies.

And he has a mustard yellow, faux-leather pencil case, stuffed in the back of the bottom shelf of his bedside table.

And it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i've only just realised that it looks like i've based my username on this story but it genuinely is just a coincidence lmao


End file.
